Everything or Nothing
by terianoen
Summary: The kiss meant everything to Sherlock, but apparently nothing to John.
1. Part 1

**Title:** Everything or Nothing

**Summary:** It meant everything to Sherlock, but apparently nothing to John.

**Warnings:** Slash, meaning boyXboy. Near death experience.

**Pairings:** Sherlock/John

**Author's Note:** This takes place just after The Great Game. This will have two parts, a little over 6,000 words long. There should be no real spoilers, and you shouldn't have to know what's going on to read.

**Disclaimer****:** I am writing this for fun and not profit. I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters therein.

Part 1- Nothing

John had left 221b Baker Street exactly 1 hour and 22 minutes ago, leaving Sherlock to pace the floor in front of the window, waiting for him to come back. Perhaps, he had read the signs wrong, perhaps he had acted without all the information. John had been talking, looking at him, his eyes wide, lips parted, flushed. He had obviously been worked up.

Sherlock could not even remember what he'd been saying. It was irrelevant. Something to do with Sarah or perhaps it was Moriarty this time. But all Sherlock could think about was John. John walking toward him at the swimming pool when it was _supposed_ to be Moriarty. John speaking Moriarty's words. John covered in explosives. John with his eyes full of barely concealed fear that was _Sherlock's _fault.

Sherlock had never felt guilt like this before. Had never been particularly fond of it. But now it was as if he could not escape the feeling, no matter how hard he tried.

So, John had been talking, as John was wont to do. And Sherlock had been staring at him, thinking and not listening.

"Sherlock," John had said, his voice low and annoyed. He was perched next to Sherlock at the kitchen table, his legs crossed tightly as he cradled a mug of tea in his hands.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, breaking himself out of his thoughts.

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, and John blinked once before flushing. Then he was waving his hands as if Sherlock could somehow decipher what he'd meant by some miraculous new invention of hand waving.

"You _know_," John insisted, which didn't exactly help Sherlock.

And then John had licked his lips, which didn't exactly help Sherlock _at all. _Because that started him thinking again. Thinking about how he'd been watching John since Moriarty's attack. Thinking about how he should not have cared so much about John in danger. Thinking of how he loathed to see John with Sarah. Thinking of how seeing John licking his lips put a fire into his stomach.

Logically, there was really only one explanation for it. He wondered vaguely if Moriarty had known of Sherlock's hidden feelings when he'd taken John. He must have otherwise he would not have used the doctor to get to Sherlock. Still, it was annoying for him to consider that Moriarty knew something about him that he himself had only recently come to terms with.

"_Sherlock_," John said again, more urgent this time. Sherlock blinked, suddenly aware that he was lost in thought again. No, not just lost in thought but staring avidly at John's lips.

And John himself had been flushed, his cheeks growing darker the longer Sherlock stared at him. His pupils dilating in the next second, and he was swallowing harshly, his adam's apple bobbing up and down. All classic signs of arousal.

Perhaps, he had read the signs wrong. Perhaps, he had acted without all the information. After all, John could have been thinking about anything. Or he could have been experiencing some other similar high emotion, though Sherlock was less sure of this explanation. He was the first to admit, he wasn't the most adept at understanding people. This was John's area of expertise.

But Sherlock had not been thinking. He'd reacted, leaning forward and pressing his lips against John's. Of course, John had frozen, his lips hard and unyielding. And Sherlock had panicked, yanking away from the doctor and standing from the table. He heard something shuffle behind him, most probably John standing from the table.

"Sherlock…." John's voice echoed. Sherlock did not bother to look.

And John must have turned and left the kitchen and then the apartment, because the next thing Sherlock had heard had been the front door opening and closing behind him.

John was gone for almost exactly 12 hours and 35 minutes, not arriving back until 3:48AM. Sherlock stopped looking out the window after 5 hours. After all, he had more important things to do than wait for John to return. Not that he actually succeeded in observing or correctly cataloging any of his experiments, but that was beyond the point.

Eventually, John did stumble into 221b, smelling of alcohol and sounding as if he'd spent the last few hours in a bar, which he obviously had. He didn't bother to head into the kitchen, probably not even realizing that Sherlock was still awake, much less listening to his stumbling. John went straight to his room and was then silent, obviously asleep if his rhythmic breathing was anything to go by.

Sherlock had sighed and turned back to his experiment. He hadn't seen John again until the next morning, and even that had been a mistake on John's part, he was sure. John had walked into the kitchen after his usual morning shower, looking around for his usual morning tea and stopping short at the sight of Sherlock, still bent over his experiment.

He'd stared for a whole minute-a lifetime for Sherlock-before he'd finally moved to get his tea. Then he'd almost run from the flat, making some excuse about being late for work when Sherlock had bothered to look up at him. Even though they both knew perfectly well what time his work started.

Sherlock had started pacing again as soon as he'd left. He was still pacing.

John was due back any moment from work, though Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if he skipped straight to Sarah's house or even the bar again. And Sherlock was left wondering if what he'd done had truly been so terrible.

It was true he wasn't the best at reading people, but even he knew when someone didn't want to be around him. It had happened often enough in his life, to the catcalls of 'freak' and the wide berths. Still, the look was different on John. John, who had always seemed to accept him as he was. John, who obviously didn't want to be around him now.

He ignored the burning pain that thought opened up in the pit of his stomach.

It… it couldn't hurt, because Sherlock was no longer capable of being hurt—he had blocked that emotion out after the third time he'd been laughed at for crying—but it _was_ rather uncomfortable. Sharply uncomfortable to a degree that was too close to hurt for Sherlock's comfort.

The front door slammed open, and Sherlock moved to the couch, striking his thinking pose before John could climb the stairs. When the door to their flat opened, Sherlock was slow to turn his head. After all, there was simply no need to give away the fact that he had been waiting. John had already shown that he wouldn't appreciate it.

John hesitated, shifting his weight as he looked at Sherlock before he sighed. And Sherlock knew from the doctor's body language that the confrontation was suddenly here.

"We need to talk," John said.

"Do we?" and they did, they most definitely did, because Sherlock couldn't stand that look in John's eyes anymore. He wanted things to go back. Before he'd been a fool. Before he'd thought for a second that John could want him.

"Yes," John sighed, taking a long step, and sinking down into his chair.

There was a long silence that Sherlock refused to be the one to break. He stared at John instead, waiting, wondering if John would say he was moving out, that he'd finally had enough of Sherlock's freakishness. He wondered that it had taken John a kiss to realize it.

"About yesterday…" John started and then promptly trailed off, leaving Sherlock a hundred different directions his tone and infliction could lead them. John cleared his throat and started again. "You were emotional, and not really think- I, uh, I just mean, it's really only been a few days after Moriarty, and as much as I-."

Sherlock's mind was moving faster than John's mouth, piecing together what John was saying even as he talked. It was beyond easy to tell what John was trying to say, what he obviously wanted.

"Let's forget it ever happened," Sherlock suggested, and as hard as it was to say the words. It would have been far harder to hear John say them. John blinked, looking startled, and then he blinked again.

"I… right," he swallowed, his face a mask of some emotion that Sherlock couldn't identify. "Right, you've probably already had this conversation before I even showed up."

He hadn't actually.

"Of course," Sherlock answered, his tone bored, sounding convincingly as if he were already done with the conversation. And he was. Though he was far from bored. But then he was hardly ever bored when John was involved.

"Right, well," John moved to stand. "Now that that's settled…" there was an awkward pause, and then Sherlock was standing, moving away, not bothering to glance over his shoulder as he disappeared into his room for the night. Or the week.

He hadn't quite decided yet.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed since John and his discussion. He was sure it had been over a week, perhaps two? He'd solved a number of cases, none of them very difficult, but none of them dipping into the territory of horribly boring.

He'd not bothered to take John along. When he'd seen the doctor, they'd both been busy. No time for idle chit-chat. Sherlock had things to do after all.

His latest case was regarding genetic cloning. This man, a Mr. Herington, had hired a company to oversee the protection of his body after death in the theory that they could one day clone his body and mind and make him live again. Sherlock was sure the idea was bullocks, but when Mr. Herington's parts had gone missing, the case had gotten interesting if nothing else.

He brushed past the front door, closing it with his foot as he bounded up the stairs. Then he was pushing open the door to the flat, shrugging his coat off and throwing it over the hook as he hurried to reach his experiments.

And it wasn't that he didn't see John sitting on his armchair. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't see the way John looked up at him when he passed, or the way John put down his newspaper as if he would say something. It was just that Sherlock was busy. He was sure they were both busy. So, he ignored John and moved straight into the kitchen, consciously redirecting his mind toward the experiment that would be waiting for him.

He didn't expect John to follow him or try and talk to him. After all, if John had had anything to add to their discussion, he'd have said something before now, wouldn't he? Therefore, John would only be speaking to him about the milk or Sarah or something equally boring. Sherlock settled himself down in front of his microscope, but he tensed as soon as he heard the telling sound of John's footsteps coming into the kitchen.

"Sherlock," John's voice said, and he sounded exasperated. Though Sherlock couldn't think of any reason why off the top of his head. "We need to talk."

"About?" Sherlock answered, his hands freezing on his experiment. And there was a shuffling of to his left as John approached.

"I thought we cleared up…" Sherlock did not miss the way John hesitated before speaking again, as if the idea of Sherlock kissing him was too terrible to contemplate speaking. Sherlock tried to shove the thought aside, but his mind had already registered and filed it away before he could do anything about it. "…Our misunderstanding, but you're obviously still upset. I was giving you some time and space, but it's been almost three weeks and you're still avoiding me! I thought we'd decided to just forget the whole thing had happened?" And John sounded… distressed.

And Sherlock shouldn't have felt guilty, but he couldn't help the swirl of guilt and hurt that moved through him as he looked up to meet John's blue eyes. He didn't like it, didn't like the way it felt at all. But over the past few weeks he'd come to expect that there was very little he could do to stop the feelings. All he could do was stop John from seeing them.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, John," Sherlock answered, blinking up at John with innocent eyes.

"What?" John blinked.

"What misunderstanding _are_ you talking about?" Sherlock clarified, and John's eyes widened again.

"I… You… You didn't delete it, did you?" he said finally.

"Must have," Sherlock shrugged, turning away again. "Really, John, I've not the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"But-."

"Anyway," he said, twisting around in his chair to stand. "I've got to run."

On his way here, he'd remembered something he'd forgotten to tell Lestrade about a case he'd been working on last week. Of course, he'd been planning to text the detective inspector as soon as he got into the flat, but Sherlock figured a quick trip to the station wouldn't kill him.

"But you've only just got back in," John argued, watching him tumble past with wide eyes.

"Well, you know how it is, John," Sherlock shrugged, stepping around the doctor, and out of the kitchen. "Duty calls." He grabbed his coat and closed the door behind him. John didn't bother trying to stop him.

It didn't take him long to arrive at the station, catching a taxi almost as soon as he threw out his hand. He stared out the window the whole ride, trying to turn his mind away from John with a force of will that surprised even himself.

And somehow, he still couldn't manage.

He'd tried to delete the file of his kiss with John. Truly he'd tried, but as with everything to do with John, it refused to go away. It stayed just on the edge of his mind, tugging at his consciousness and demanding he pay attention to it. Only when he was truly immersed in something else did he succeed in closing the file completely.

But John didn't need to know that. Indeed, the one thing John seemed to want above all else was for Sherlock to forget what had happened. So, if Sherlock had to convince him that this was what had happened, well, Sherlock was an accomplished liar.

He stepped out of the taxi, throwing a wad of money at the driver and not bother to wait for him to count out the change. Of course, Lestrade was less than pleased to see him.

"I don't have any cases for you," he said, which was a shame, but not the real point of the visit.

"I'm here with information for you," Sherlock answered, and Lestrade's eyebrows rose sharply.

"What? Why are you here?" he asked, which he rather thought was a repetition of what he'd just said.

"I've told you-."

"No, why isn't John texting me, or," Lestrade waved his hand vaguely. "You know, texting me on your phone." Sherlock frowned.

"I can make trips here if only to pass along information."

"Sure, but not without an ulterior motive."

"Well," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I now see exactly what wonderful deductive skills the British government is paying you for." Lestrade just sighed.

"So, what is this piece of information?"

"The killer we apprehended last week, when I was at the crime scene, I detected-."

"Wait," Lestrade interrupted. "This is about that week-old case that we've already closed? Seriously, Sherlock, why are you here?"

"I've already-."

"No, you've made up some terrible excuse about information that I either don't need or already have," Lestrade grumbled, sitting down heavily behind his desk. "What's up with you these past few weeks. You've been… off…"

"I don't get _off_," Sherlock answered, to which Lestrade frowned.

"You're not using again, are you?"

"I'm leaving," Sherlock snapped, turning on his heel.

"Hey," Lestrade called, and his voice was low. He sounded repentant, though it was always hard for Sherlock to tell if people were truly sorry or just pretending. It was true Mycroft had fooled him one too many times for him to trust it. Still, he hesitated a step away from the door to Lestrade's office. "I'm seriously worried about you here, ok?"

"I assure you, I'm in perfect health," Sherlock answered, pulling the door open.

"Healths not what I'm talking about," he heard Lestrade say before the door closed behind him.

* * *

They were in trouble. Somehow, he'd managed to get not only himself but John locked in the freezer section of the company he was investigating. And of course, the company was in the business of storing dead bodies so they could later clone them, so the freezer was full of dead bodies.

Not that the said dead bodies particularly bothered Sherlock, but it did mean that the freezer was kept extra cold. Which meant that they would die of hypothermia in approximately 30 minutes.

And since John was with him, Sherlock had found himself feeling trapped between guilt and hurt as John sat huddled in the freezer next to him. He should never have let John come. He should never have looked into those blue eyes and allowed himself to be persuaded.

But John had stopped him as Sherlock was making his way out the door. Sherlock had tried to ignore him, but when John was looking at him like with expectant eyes, asking what was wrong and pleading to be involved in the excitement again, it was…. difficult to ignore.

"You off on a case?" John had asked, and _Sherlock _knew he hesitated, though he doubted John noticed.

"Yes."

"Mind if I come? I feel like I've not been with you on a case for ages," John said, and Sherlock hadn't had a good enough excuse to say no.

At least, not without letting John know that he really _hadn't _deleted the memory of their kiss. Which was an unacceptable outcome.

And so, they had gone, and John had said something about the case that if Sherlock had brought him earlier he probably would have said earlier, and Sherlock probably would have been able to solve the whole case a whole lot faster. But he hadn't brought John along. And now, they were locked in a freezer, because the secretary had had time to prepare for Sherlock.

"Maybe we should take our clothes off?" John said, his voice low as it was when he joked. Instantly, Sherlock moved away from him, gripping his knees closer to his chest. The shivering was coming harder now, and he could tell from John's slurred speech that his core body temperature was dropping as well.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Sherlock answered, his own tongue already feeling heavy in his mouth. How long had they been here? How had he let himself loose track of time?

"Yea, I didn't think so," John said, turning his face away with a slight blush obvious along his pale cheeks.

And they were quiet, the only sound the clacking together of their bones as they shivered. And Sherlock wanted nothing more than to just move closer to John. To close his eyes and share body heat or something. It would be a good enough excuse, wouldn't it? John had certainly bought some of his worse excuses, hadn't he?

And suddenly Sherlock couldn't remember for the life of him why John and he weren't _already _sharing body heat.

"Sherlock," John's voice said. Sherlock blinked his eyes open slowly, and his head felt heavy, full of cotton when he lifted it to look John in the eyes.

"I'm cold, John," he said as if it weren't obvious by the way he was shivering. John nodded once, blinking hard as he looked back.

"I know, but you have to stay awake."

"Why?" Sherlock answered, his voice suspiciously close to a whine. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was part of the hypothermia. This was the apathy taking over, making it hard for him to care whether he lived or died. But he couldn't find it in him to care even then. He'd felt apathy before, when he'd used, and he'd not been able to fight it then either.

"Because," John's forehead crinkled as he looked back at Sherlock as if he too were searching for an answer. Only he seemed to find it if the way his jaw set was anything to go by. "For me, Sherlock. Stay awake for me."

"I…" Sherlock frowned back, trying to consider, but his mind was slow, refusing to listen to him. The only thing he could really come up with was 'anything for John'. "Anything for you," he said finally, the words tumbling out before he thought about why he shouldn't say something like that. And John smiled. And then Sherlock was somehow laying on John's shoulder, his hands tucked in John's too thin jacket as John had his own arms wrapped around Sherlock.

And at some point, Sherlock had stopped shivering, though he couldn't remember what that meant. It was… good, wasn't it?

"John," he said, and John hummed underneath him. "Why don't you love me?" he asked, and he felt John stir against him, but neither of them had the strength to move much anymore.

"Why do you think that?" John answered, his words slow in coming. Or perhaps Sherlock was slow in processing. It was beginning to be difficult to tell.

"I just know."

"Oh," John said, obviously at a loss, and Sherlock couldn't blame him. He had always been slow, even without hypothermia making it hard for him to focus.

"I love _you_, you know," Sherlock told him, just because it seemed important. After all, they _were _dying, it seemed a good time to tell John how he was everything to Sherlock.

"I…I didn't…I…." John's voice warped as Sherlock's eyes closed, and he felt the blackness closing in around him. He figured it was alright after all to die in John's arms as long as he didn't have to hear how John didn't return his feelings again.


	2. Part 2

_**Thanks to everyone who's read this far!**_

Part 2- Everything

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. He could feel the piles of blankets draped on top of him; the pinch in his left arm where the IV must be. He felt heavy; his mind slow, but even so it wasn't a hard leap to take the chemical scent of cleaner and the scratchy sheets and know he was in the hospital. He groaned, trying to sit up and feeling his whole body tense up around him.

"Wow, there," a voice said. It was low, tired. Not John. Sherlock forced himself to peel back his eyelids, tilting his head just slightly to catch the glimpse of Lestrade. Unshaven, bags under his eyes. Obviously having been there for a while. "There you are," he smiled thinly, leaning forward in his chair. "Thought you'd never wake up."

"Sherlock," there was a shuffle of feet from behind him, and Mycroft was suddenly stepping up from behind Lestrade. "How are you?" he asked.

"Where's John?" he asked, or he tried to ask anyway. It mostly came out a garbled rasp that left Sherlock slightly disgusted with his transport's inability.

Mycroft and Lestrade only exchanged a look before Mycroft picked the water pitched off the bedside time. He was quick in the way he poured the glass, in the way he held it to Sherlock's lips as he drank. And Sherlock wanted to protest, but his throat was so dry that he couldn't make himself. Instead, he settled for glaring while he accepted the water.

"We barely found the two of you in time," Lestrade said, standing awkwardly to the side as Mycroft set the glass down again. "If it hadn't been for your brother, we wouldn't have."

"What happened?" Sherlock answered, groaning gently as he moved to sit up. "Where's John?"

"I noticed when you both disappeared," Mycroft said. "It was a close call, but thankfully the Inspector was able to assist and apprehend a miss Therma?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "I found she was responsible for the disappearance of a Mr. Herington's body parts, and I assume she was the one who locked you in the freezer."

"Where is John?" Sherlock answered, eyes sharping as they continued to avoid his questions.

"Calm down, Sherlock, he's in the room next to yours," Lestrade said. "He's actually recovered quite a bit better than you. Been in and out of consciousness for a day now," he hesitated, exchanging another look with Mycroft. "Been asking for you actually."

"Oh," Sherlock answered, somewhere between relieved and dreading.

* * *

They kept Sherlock in the hospital for a little less than a week, observing and analyzing and every time he removed one of their needles, they put it back in. They all but forced food down his throat and told him to stay in bed when he tried to leave. By the end, he was so close to insanity, he feared Mycroft was going to check him into an asylum.

And he said nothing about John, shutting the subject down as soon as he'd determined that John would be fine. Lestrade seemed worried, but knew better than to push him. While Mycroft only looked at him with unreadable eyes and said nothing that Sherlock didn't already know.

He remembered most of what happened while they'd been out of their minds. It had felt as if he'd been in a dream, not really processing anything before he moved forward. It had been an unnerving experience. But he still remembered it. He still remembered what he'd said. And he wondered how much John remembered.

Apparently, John was doing better than him. Good enough that the doctors were letting him walk around. He came to see Sherlock the second day of their dual stay, but the conversation was so stilted and awkward that even Sherlock knew he must have done _something _wrong. And really it wasn't difficult to deduce what.

John hadn't bothered to visit him again.

John was released a couple days before Sherlock; the doctors giving him the all clear. And Sherlock had to resist the temptation to ask Lestrade if John was taking the extra time to move out of Baker street. It seemed plausible. Likely. Now that John _knew_. If the kiss hadn't told him, Sherlock's behavior couldn't have been more obvious.

Sherlock spent his final day in the hospital pacing back and forth and thinking as hard as he could, trying to come up with something, anything that would convince John to stay. Nothing occurred to him. Well, a lie occurred to him. He could lie about how he felt, but it left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. It was feeling he was familiar with. A feeling he'd had a lot of when he'd been using. A feeling he learned it was better to avoid.

"Sherlock?" there was a knock at the door, and he was surprised when John came in. He'd just finished getting back into his own clothes; the hospital gown thrown somewhere in the bathroom. He'd resisted the temptation to set fire to it only because he thought it would make it harder to get out of the damn place.

"John," he answered, and perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised that John had come, but for some reason, he'd convinced himself that it would be Lestrade or Mycroft that would take him home. Anyone but John.

He didn't know if John's kind face and wide blue eyes made him feel better or worse.

"Are you ready to go home?" John asked.

"If I spend another night here, I might just explode the place," Sherlock said, and from the way John smiled, he knew it was the right answer.

The ride back to Baker street felt horribly long, which was ridiculous considering it was the same length as it ever was. But Sherlock still had to stop himself from turning to stare at John every few minutes. John was tense at his side, his face turned out the window, obviously refusing to look at Sherlock.

And Sherlock wondered belatedly how long it would take John to announce that he would be leaving the flat.

Miss Hudson was waiting for them when they arrived, bustling around their flat. She took one look at Sherlock and stepped up, starting to fiddle with his coat as he and John stood in the doorway.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she said. "I was so worried. When you and John never came home, and then, of course, that inspector of yours was calling, and-!"

"Right," he cleared his throat, already uncomfortably with her concern. "Well, mustn't fuss."

"Right, of course," she said, letting him go with a smile. "I'll just go and get you both a cuppa, shall I?" and she was already bustling away before he could respond. He looked over at John before he could stop himself, and John was smiling at him as if he wasn't disgusted by Sherlock.

"You should probably sit down," John's eyebrows crinkled as he looked at Sherlock. "You'll still be tired."

And as soon as he said it, Sherlock became aware of how tired he was. He shouldn't have been. Before, he'd been able to go days without sleeping or eating, hours on end with no company except his own mind or running down the streets chasing down suspects. He shouldn't have been tired from a taxi drive across town, but he was.

"Sherlock?" John murmured, his hand suddenly on Sherlock's arm, warm and comforting, and Sherlock stared at him. "Shall we go up?"

"Oh, yes," he shifted, and John's hand fell. "Right." he climbed the stairs, John's heat following behind him.

He felt John's eyes on him as he sank into the couch, Mrs. Hudson handing off tea and leaving with another couple of words that Sherlock dismissed as he curled his feet up on the cushions, leaning his chin on his knees.

"Tea?" John asked, suddenly standing at his elbow. Sherlock just looked at him, and John sighed, putting the cup onto the table by Sherlock's feet before leaving him alone.

Over the next few days, things became horribly normal. John stayed in the flat, watching Sherlock and writing in his blog and complaining about Sherlock's violin playing as if everything between them was perfectly fine. And Sherlock was content to go along with him, picking up a case off his website to avoid the horrible tinge of boredom he knew would eventually creep into his mind as he enjoyed the little time he had left before John decided he was ready to leave the flat. The flat and Sherlock.

* * *

John had been tense all morning, watching Sherlock over the top of his tea as he flipped the slide of his experiment. He'd just solved his latest case, hardly having to leave the flat but at least it was something to do while he waited. And he could tell by the way John was watching him, by the way his hands were tense around his teacup that Sherlock was done waiting.

"Sherlock," John said, setting his cup on the table in front of him. And for a long moment, Sherlock seriously considered ignoring him, pretending to be too engrossed in his experiment, as if he hadn't been watching John's every move for the past few days, as if John didn't know Sherlock had been watching him.

"Yes," he sighed, looking up from his microscope.

"We need to talk," John answered. Sherlock said nothing. "About what happened in the freezer…." his voice trailed off, his eyes flicking from Sherlock's face to the side and back again. And Sherlock supposed if he truly cared about John he would have let him say his piece. He would have let John tell Sherlock how he didn't love him, and how he couldn't live with him anymore, and Sherlock would let him move out, no matter how it hurt. But John was opening his mouth to talk and Sherlock was trying to picture his life without John in it and he just _couldn't. _

"You don't have to do this, John," Sherlock interrupted him.

"Sherlock…" John answered, looking pained.

"Please, John, I'm sorry. I…" Sherlock swallowed, and he wondered vaguely when he'd gained the ability to care about other people. It had been so long since he'd even considered anyone else in his life. The last person had been Mycroft, perhaps Mrs. Hudson, but he was sure he'd never experienced the all-consuming feeling of John Watson before.

John had stepping into his life and wormed his way in with his kindness and acceptance, and he'd acted as if Sherlock wasn't a freak. He'd acted as if Sherlock was worthy of being his friend. It had happened before Sherlock had even known what was going on, and now that it was over, he didn't have the slightest idea what to do with himself anymore.

"I'll try to do better," Sherlock said. If there was anyway he could convince John to stay, Sherlock would gladly take it.

"You- what?" John blinked, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at Sherlock.

"I… know I've put you in an uncomfortable position," Sherlock fiddled with his microscope, but he folded his hands across his lap, looking down before John could say anything. "I don't blame you."

He didn't; not really. He blamed himself. He should have been able to delete the memory. He should have been able to keep his emotions in check. He should never have let John in in the first place.

But that didn't change the fact that he would do anything, say anything keep John from leaving him.

"You don't blame me for what, Sherlock?" John asked, and his voice was quiet, careful, his blue eyes locked on Sherlock's face as if he were afraid of the answer. Sherlock stared back at him. Did John truly wish for him to say the words? What would be the point? Hadn't he already made up his mind?

"For wanting to leave," Sherlock said. The words almost stuck in his throat, and he had to turn his head away to choke them out, refusing to look over at John and see the look in his eyes.

"Leave?" John answered. Sherlock's head whipped around at the appalled tone of his voice. "You think I'm leaving."

"When I kissed you," Sherlock said, and John tensed, staring at him with wide eyes, but the words tumbled out of him the explanation coming like it always did when John asked him something. "You were tense, unresponsive; signs of discomfort. Then you were gone for hours on end, obviously avoiding me. Classic signs that my advance was unwelcome, unreciprocated. Afterward, you relaxed when you thought I'd deleted the event," and John is watching him with blue eyes so wide Sherlock had to look away, because he didn't understand John's expression, didn't understand why John was looking at him like that when he asked. "After I… after I confessed my… feelings to you, you were tense, uncomfortable when you visited me in the hospital. The only logical conclusion was that you were only visiting to appease a sense of duty-."

"Sherlock-," John tried.

"You've been edgy all day, nervous, obviously working up for bad news. That coupled with the last few days of trying to appease me make it obvious that the only reasonable answer is that you're preparing to leave."

"Sherlock, I'm not-."

"But you don't have to," he looked up again, trying desperately to convince John that he's wrong. That Sherlock won't trouble him with his emotions anymore. That he could keep them in check if he must. "I can control myself."

"I don't want you to control yourself," John answered, and Sherlock was stuck somewhere between shocked, confused, and hurt. And the last thing he needed was for John to mock him.

"I don't understand," words he hates saying. Hates thinking. And John smiles slightly as if he knows exactly what Sherlock is thinking.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry I acted the way I did. I was shocked when you kissed me. And I needed to process," John twists his fingers together, his eyes steady on Sherlock. "I thought you were married to your work. Hell, I thought I was straight. And then you kissed me and…"

"You were disgusted," Sherlock muttered, because it was the only possible answer. The only one that made sense, because John was-

"Sherlock," John answered, and when Sherlock looked up at him his eyes were hard, disapproving. "Do I really look disgusted?" Sherlock sighed, forcing himself to actually look, to consider. John's eyes were dilated, and as Sherlock looked at him, his cheeks flushed, adam's apple bobbing up and then down. He looked aroused, but then Sherlock had made that mistake before.

"It wasn't disgusting. It was amazing. And I didn't know what to do," John said with a sigh when he realized Sherlock wasn't going to say anything. "I didn't mean to hurt you, but I just needed time to figure everything out. To break up with Sarah and decide-."

"You broke up with Sarah?"

"Yes," and John is smiling again, looking at Sherlock with that shine in his eyes that he only gets when Sherlock misses something that he considers obvious. "The morning after. She wasn't even that surprised."

"Oh," Sherlock answered. He's not sure what he's supposed to say. Sorry, perhaps. Except that he wasn't sorry, not in the slightest. He felt relieved; the question he'd been too afraid to deduce seemed obvious now that John had said it. Of course, John hadn't been seeing Sarah anymore.

"And then I came back, and I was stumbling over my words, not saying what I was meaning, and I wasn't sure what you really meant when you kissed me, and then you said we should just forget it, and I didn't know how to say no," John ducked his head, his face flushed with something other than arousal this time. "But when you kept avoiding me, I told myself I was going to tell you how I really felt, except you said you had deleted the kiss. And I thought it was all in my head, that I'd just been making up your avoiding me so I could think you maybe cared about me half as much as I cared about you…

"But it turns out I wasn't, was I? You really were avoiding me?" John asked, but Sherlock just turned away. "Why did you lie?"

"It seemed logical. If you'd known I kept the memory, you would have questioned me about its significance."

"I'm sorry," John said, and he was reaching across the table, his hand closing over Sherlock's, wrapping around his fingers and holding them as he speaks. And Sherlock just stared at him, knowing he should be saying something, perhaps pulling away. After all emotions got him into the mess in the first place, but he simply couldn't.

And John was leaning over the table, his face so close Sherlock could feel his breath. He hesitated, long enough that Sherlock knew he could pull away but didn't. And then John was kissing him, barely touching his lips against Sherlock's once before pulling back and looking at him. Sherlock looking back at him in shock, and John chuckled once, low in his throat before leaning forward again and pressing his lips against Sherlock's again, harder this time, just a brush of tongue and it was enough to send Sherlock's mind reeling back and then snapping forward until he could function.

He's never been entirely sure how it happened, but he ended up with John's tongue in his mouth, his fingers twisted between John's hair as John leaned over the table, one of John's legs shoved between Sherlock's own. And when John pulled away, Sherlock actually whined, as if he was some sex starved teenager who was not in control of his transport.

He stared up at John, at his dilate pupils and beating pulse and flushed face and wondered how in the world he had missed this.

"You want me," he said, somewhere between a statement and a question, and John chuckled slightly, leaning his head forward to rest against Sherlock's collarbone.

"I _love_ you, Sherlock."

"Huh," he cleared his throat. "Well, that's… comforting." John only snorted against him as he smiled up at the ceiling, the words unsaid between them. But he supposed, it was enough for now.

~End~


End file.
